


A Better Plan

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [11]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU of Clean Hands, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: When Walter Volcek snatches Sam in an effort to force Team One to hand over serial killer Peter Wilkins, Parker is forced to choose between rescuing Sam and protecting Wilkins.  As Agent Delia Semple offers to protect Wilkins herself, someone comes up with a better plan.  AU of Clean Hands





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for 02x03: Clean Hands. Pretty much the entire episode. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the eleventh in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows “Family By Blood, Family By Choice”.
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

In a lonely, deserted area of a busy airport, Sergeant Parker faced off with a desperate man from behind a shield. “Looks like we gotta figure this one out, huh?” he called, voice level.

With a bite to his voice, the man, who wore an SRU radio, replied, “I was under the impression all the figuring had been done, Greg.”

Behind the man and his hostage, Ed Lane moved as quickly as he could, racing to get into position before it was too late. “I’ve got the slug, Spike. We’re on our way.”

In the Command Truck, on his cell phone, Spike warned, “Ed, the range is short, and that thing doesn’t shoot straight. You don’t hit him dead-on, it could be…it could be bad for Sam.”

Grim, Ed replied, “Spike, we got no choice.”

With one hand on a captive Sam Braddock and the other clutching an unpinned grenade, the man yelled, “I mean, why should he live? Why should he live? When, every day, what he did kills all of us, Greg.”

Greg didn’t dare interrupt as the man ranted. Jules stood slightly in front of him and to his right, shield up. To Jules’ right and behind, Wordy had his submachine gun at the ready. Ed and Lou hurried toward the man, careful to stay out of sight.

“It kills all of us a little bit more and a little bit more and a little bit more till there’s…there’s nothing left,” the man rasped out, anger, grief, and desperation mixing in his words.

“There is something left, Walter,” Greg offered, determined to keep the man distracted just long enough.

With renewed bitterness, the man spat, “What? There’s no reason why. There’s just people in pain, spinning around a black hole, hoping that somebody, anybody…”

Sam’s eyes flicked to the side, spotting the two sneaking into position, judging their positions and his captor’s rising desperation. Ed veered off from the windows, moving through the rows of airport seating, weapon raised and aimed.

“…will just finish this,” the man finished, raising his arm to throw the grenade down.

“Go now!” Sam roared.


	2. New Phones for Team One

_4 hours earlier_

Wordy grinned as he surveyed his brand new work phone, guaranteed to operate in even the heaviest magical areas. They were also, to the entire team’s shocked delight, smartphones, rather than the flip phones that had burned out on their last magic-side hot call.

“How’d you get these?” Ed asked, inspecting his own phone.

Wordy glanced up to see Sarge’s mischievous smirk, the sight of which was still surprising to the entire team. Ever since Sarge had somehow managed to retain custody of the kids, he’d been more, well, playful outside of the hot calls. The team was still puzzling over how he’d managed to switch all of their civilian shirts for loud, bright Hawaiian shirts during the last shift. Or how he’d gotten pictures of all of them in said shirts. “Gringotts,” was Sarge’s only reply, his eyes glinting with amusement. _Gringotts?_

Sam whistled in the background. “The goblins did these?” he asked, poking much more warily at his phone. _They have gobl…of_ course _they have goblins._

“Something about how they’re much more familiar with the tech world than just about every other part of the magical world is,” Sarge remarked, completely at ease with the idea. “These phones have runes to let them work around magical areas, but, otherwise, are just like regular smartphones.”

“Just like?” Sam questioned, looking up. “What if they get dropped or something?”

That was a very good point, Wordy decided. Sarge frowned at the question and dug through the box the phones had come in, locating a small sheaf of parchment. He squinted at the parchment, bringing it up and muttering to himself as he read. Deciding to give Sarge time to find whatever he was looking for, Wordy returned to his new phone and started to put his contact list in. One ear, though, was cocked for any interesting comments from his teammates.

“Sweet, Lou check _this_ out,” Spike half-crowed.

“What are you gonna use that for? Picking up girls?” Lou sounded unimpressed by whatever Spike had found.

“Nice camera,” Sam remarked to Jules, the two leaning together to check out whatever shot Sam had taken.

“That is a nice camera,” Jules deadpanned. Wordy could practically hear the smirk.

“…runic array…shielding…charging…phone functions…” Sarge grumbled to himself, still reading. When he perked up, Wordy swiveled his attention up again. “Here we go, miscellaneous rune functions.” Looking very much like a kid with a new toy, Sarge looked up from the parchment. “They’re shielded against most damage, Sam. Dropping shouldn’t hurt them at all. Deliberate damage probably will, though.”

Nods went around the room, but then, Team One was used to the idea that their equipment was potentially a target in any situation. Sam inspected his phone much more closely at Sarge’s announcement, looking as if he was thinking hard. “Who’s paying for these, Boss?” he asked abruptly.

“Didn’t the unit pay for them?” Jules countered, looking surprised at Sam’s question.

Judging from the brief guilty look on Sarge’s face, no, the unit hadn’t paid for the new phones. Wordy sucked in a breath. “Sarge?”

Sarge shifted, looking uncomfortable now. “Don’t worry about that guys,” he replied. “This is equipment we need for any magic-side calls.” Moving on and brightening again, he added, “Spike, Gringotts is still working on modifications for Babycakes and our computers in the Command Truck, but the computers should be done by next month. Babycakes is going to take longer; from what I was told, they have to come up with workable runes first.”

Spike’s grin was a mile wide. “All right!”

“We can bring the trucks in next time?” Lou queried, looking rather excited himself.

“The Command Truck at least, once the computers are done. The goblins told me they were just about done with the auto-transcriptor, too,” Sarge confirmed, enjoying his team’s enthusiasm.

* * * * *

A man stood in the entryway of a church, watching the group session through the door. He stood in darkness, preferring to go unnoticed by the people inside the room. A woman was speaking to the rest of the group, looking and sounding a bit ill-at-ease. She had a dark sweater over a white t-shirt, blue jeans and calf-high brown winter boots on and her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders and down her back. As the man watched the woman, he felt almost nothing for her, just the pain that had been his world since…

“It’s just that, sometimes, you don’t really know what it is that’s going to set it off. It could be a…song, or, uh…something that she used to say. But this time, it wasn’t, uh, anything like that. It was…more about the loneliness.” She paused, sniffing hard. “Anyway…” she continued with a sigh, “It happened, and now, I move on. My name is Wendy, and I miss my little girl. But it has been eight days since my last drink. And I’m just very happy to be here right now.”

As the crowd in the chairs applauded the woman, the man in the entryway slipped outside.

* * * * *

The new phones were great, the promise of more magic-shielded tech even moreso. But Wordy couldn’t help but wonder about Sam’s question. The one Sarge had dodged, the question of who, exactly, was paying for the team’s new toys. The phones had to be expensive, custom made. Especially since he’d discovered that they’d all been preprogrammed for their new owners and contained an assortment of law enforcement apps in addition to each team member’s personal information. So far, all he’d had to transfer had been his contact list and his photos. No way Sarge had enough for these beauties; Commander Holleran probably couldn’t have afforded them, not for the whole team. But Sarge had that set to his jaw that meant the subject was closed, at least for now. Ed was casting the stubborn man a fond, but irritated look. _Pot, meet kettle,_ Wordy mused.

Sarge pulled Ed off the side, discussing a few final details for the day’s job. The rest of the team contented themselves with investigating the law enforcement apps on their phones, Spike gleefully sharing his new favorites with Lou and Sam. Wordy’s own new favorite had to be the map app that could work with a corresponding magical map to show the occupants of magical buildings. How that worked was something the constable still hadn’t figured out, but it sure sounded impressive.

With an “Okay, thanks, buddy,” Sarge ended the conference with Ed and headed over the drop-down screen in the briefing room. The team came to attention, shifting their focus onto the day’s escort job. The picture of and information for a black-haired, full-bearded, shaggy man was up on the screen. “All right,” Sarge began, “We’re going to go over the brief one more time, make sure everyone’s up to speed.”

* * * * *

The man just outside the church wore a blue jacket and scarf over a sweater vest of the same color, a white shirt peeking out from underneath. His face was prematurely aged, lines carving themselves around his mouth and forehead. Brown hair was cut in a classic crew-cut and brushed back from a high forehead. He was mostly clean-shaven, though it looked as if he hadn’t shaved the night before: a five o’clock shadow showed on his lower jaw. His blue eyes were dark and brooding. As people began to leave the small church, he turned a little to watch, waiting for the blonde woman to emerge.

As she emerged, she turned to the woman behind her, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

The woman smiled back, replying, “Good to see you, too.”

The blonde spotted the man waiting for her and immediately came over. She now wore a knitted blue cap on her head and a soft-looking brown coat. Her purse was slung over her left shoulder and she looked up at her visitor without speaking.

“Wendy?” Walter greeted her. “Thought I might find you here.”

Wendy hiked her purse up a little, but did not respond.

With a quiet, “Oh,” Walter pulled out a folded stack of papers and offered them to Wendy, saying, “Sorry about the wait.” As Wendy took the papers, regarding them thoughtfully, the man continued, “My lawyer’s been all over it. Just need to sign, and, uh…” He trailed off, then added, “Well, I always thought your maiden name was prettier anyhow.”

Wendy looked up at her now ex-husband, solemn, then folded the papers up and put them in her purse. As she turned and started to walk away, he followed, keeping pace with her.

“Uh, look, nobody’s supposed to know about this, but…they’re flying him in today.”

Wendy looked up, puzzlement on her face. “Who?”

Angry, he demanded, “What do you mean, who?”


	3. Wilkins’ Evil Twin

Auror Brian Wilkins surveyed the information Locksley had laid out on the table in his small office. “They’re escorting a serial killer?” he queried, confused.

“Yes, nicknamed the Leslie Spit killer as I understand,” Madame Locksley replied, a frown gracing the elder woman’s face.

“Who is he?” Brian asked, curious.

There was a moment of silence, then Madame Locksley said quietly, “His name is Peter Wilkins.”

Brian stared at his superior, utterly shocked.

* * * * *

“Peter Wilkins,” Greg Parker confirmed to his team.

A curious Jules inquired, “Any relation to _our_ Wilkins?”

“No way,” Sam chipped in. “ _Our_ Wilkins is pureblood, remember?”

Parker nodded in agreement with Sam and continued, “Seventeen women, six years. Eleven months ago, Homicide’s about to press charges, and he bolts overseas.” He paused, offering a smirk. “A month ago, he turns up in a mental hospital in Bernburg, Germany. Admits to everything: names, dates, dumping patterns.”

“Weren’t they holding him, saying he was too crazy to be tried?” Lou asked from his seat.

“Yeah,” Parker agreed, “But the legal wrangling’s over. We say that he gets a mental competency hearing, and they fly him over to us.”

* * * * *

“And they’re the welcoming party?” Brian asked, incredulous. “Don’t they have better things to do than protect a vicious killer?”

Locksley sighed. “At times like these, Auror Wilkins, I don’t believe I’ll ever truly understand the tech world.”

“No kidding,” Brian muttered.

* * * * *

“This is a joint op,” Greg continued, “Us and the Federal Customs Department, all right? Our counterpart is, uh,” he rummaged through the papers, “Delia…Delia…Delia Semple, with the airport attachment.” Looking up at his team, landing each of them with a serious look, he added, “Now, airport might be in our city, guys, but on the other side of Customs-- that’s international territory. It’s her jurisdiction; it’s her rules.”

* * * * *

Wendy strode alongside her former husband, asking, “When did you get back from assignment?” When Walter didn’t respond, she added, “Your parents have been calling. They said that they haven’t heard from you…”

“I’ve got nothing to say to them,” Walter snapped.

“Oh, Walter, come on,” Wendy pleaded, coming to a stop. “You can’t still…”

“Oh, so, you’re past that too, eh?” Walter bit back. “Lean how to do that in one of your little groups?”

Holding onto her temper, Wendy replied, “Yeah. You should try one sometime. It helps.”

As she turned and began to leave, Walter retorted, “Yeah. Didn’t help so much last week. What happened then? You forget to forget her?”

With a snap to her stride and bitterness in her voice, Wendy crossed back, getting in her ex-husband’s face. “You know, not all of us get to go off and be a war hero. Some of us have to stay right here in the same house and go by the same school that she went to every day! Some of us don’t get to forget, _ever!_ ”

Walter looked down as Wendy ranted, ashamed. “All right. I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“There’s enough sorries to go around,” Wendy replied, bringing a mournful chuckle to both. “Walter, it’s taken me a lot of years and a lot of bottles to get here, but you can do this, too, and you’re not losing her by doing it.” She leaned forward, placing a hand on Walter’s arm. “You’re moving forward _for her_.”

Anguished, he whispered, “Every time I close my eyes, I see her, Wendy. I-I see her lying on that thing they slid her out on, and I hear myself saying, ‘Yeah, that’s her. That’s my daughter.’ Every time I close my eyes.”

Soft, understanding, Wendy said firmly, “That’s where you still are, but I can’t be there anymore. And when you find that you can’t be, either, I want you to phone me.” Pausing, putting careful emphasis on each word, she added, “Anytime. Even after this. Okay? Just…” She leaned up, kissed him and finally left.

Behind her, he watched her go, trembling ever so slightly.

* * * * *

Ed took over the brief, giving brisk instructions. “All right, we’re gonna meet at the gate. The Feds are gonna escort the prisoner to Customs. Then we are gonna take custody, escort the prisoner to the psychiatric evaluation. Now, nobody knows he’s flying in today, so there’s no crowd control. But if anybody wants this guy, they will go through us to get him. All right? So let’s keep our eyes open. Let’s gear up, hit the trucks.”

* * * * *

Brian shook his head, examining the information. Protecting a ruthless killer, and for what? Legal wrangling? Bureaucracy? Those Muggle liberals that insisted on giving more rights to a killer than a victim? It made no sense to him, probably made equally little sense to his techie counterparts, but Brian knew they’d do their jobs, no matter what.

* * * * *

Walter sat in his car, playing the CD his daughter had given him before the deployment when she’d… His gaze focused on the airport, his resolve hardening with each note from his daughter’s gift. He reached out, ejecting the CD before the song could finish, placing it back in its case. The case was tucked in his jacket before he clipped on his airport ID badge and got out of his car. It was time.

* * * * *

Team One moved briskly, following the airport’s Security Chief as he explained the route and plan to Sergeant Parker. They were fully armed, with helmets and shields in place for anything unexpected. As the group walked through the automatic sliding doors, the Security man said, “Route for you guys is through the Customs doors over there, straight across and out here to your trucks. Like I said, low profile all the way.”

Almost before he finished, a reporter and crowd of angry protestors rushed over to the newly arrived officers. “Excuse me?” the reporter began, demanding Sergeant Parker’s attention. Without waiting for any reply, the reporter asked, walking to keep up, “Is it true that accused serial killer Peter Wilkins is being taken into custody today, and what do you have to say to the victims’ families?”

More than a little annoyed, Parker gave her a crisp, “Ma’am, please, just stand back.” Turning he added, “Eddie, low profile.”

Indignant, the Security Chief snapped, “Hey, I followed every protocol you sent. This isn’t on us.” Pointing, he continued, “Right this way, guys.”

Before following the Security Chief, Greg turned to the crowd, donning his negotiator mask. “I know how some of you must be feeling right now, and I’m sorry, but right now, we have a job to do, so if you just vacate the premises, everyone will be a lot safer. Thank you very much.” With that, he turned and headed after his team, oblivious to the angry man who’d just arrived through the automatic doors.

* * * * *

Walter ignored the protestors and reporters as he headed to the employee locker room. Once inside, he locked the door and moved a stool so he could reach the bag he’d stowed there months earlier.

A man began banging on the door, calling, “Hey, unlock the door.”

“Just a second,” Walter called back, as he checked his pistol, pulling the slide back to chamber a round. Ready.


	4. Lie to the Press and Evade the Public

Jack Broder was having a bad day, lots of headaches. The weathered, gray-haired man surveyed his biggest headache. A group of glorified SWAT cops who were far more interested in catering to special interest groups than actually giving the scumbag about to be handed over to them what he deserved. “I just don’t see the big deal,” he told their leader, more than a little smug at the little…snafu they had to deal with.

In a serious, no-nonsense voice, Parker said, “Mr. Broder, from the time we get Mr. Wilkins into custody to the time we get him to that hospital, he’s as exposed as he’ll ever be.”

“It’s five minutes, tops.”

The other cop in charge, Lake, Lane, or something like that, stepped in. “Five minutes is a long time to be walking through that crowd of people we have no legal ground to restrain, who want to kill this guy.”

“And that’s bad why again?” Broder demanded, as sarcastic as he could be.

Lane gave him a flat look and stepped away to give Parker more room. Parker shifted to face Broder head-on, still matter-of-fact. “Look, Mr. Broder, all kidding aside, my main concern is for my team and the job they have to do.”

Broder was skeptical of that claim, even as he tilted his head down in acknowledgement of Parker’s stated position. From the office door, arriving in a brisk whirlwind, a blonde woman held her open badge in one hand as she said, “Agent Delia Semple, Federal Customs Department Airport Attachment. Who’s Sergeant Parker?” Her hair fell to her shoulders, her suit was a crisp navy blue, and she was a graceful picture of professionalism. She was a woman Broder very much admired and enjoyed working with.

Parker turned away from Broder as she entered and spoke, then extended a hand as he replied, “Right here. How are you?”

Semple did not take the offered hand, instead folding and tucking her badge away as she announced, “Sergeant Parker, I understand you have a problem, which means I have a problem.”

“No argument there,” Parker replied with a smile Broder could just see from his position.

With a brief return smile, Semple remarked, “Good start. Solutions?”

“We were just discussing those with Mr. Broder here,” Parker rejoined, turning to include Broder in the discussion.

With a minor shrug, Broder informed them, “No matter where I move the crowd to, you still gotta go past ‘em.”

“He’s not wrong,” Semple observed, “Once you’re through Customs, there’s only one way to go.”

Determined, Lane declared, “But not through that crowd. We take the prisoner directly from the airplane; we have a truck on the tarmac.”

To Broder’s surprise, Semple snapped, “Out of the question.” He didn’t say anything, but he was puzzled. Why was such a course out of the question? It did sound safer…for the cops, if not that scumbag.

Parker didn’t seem to realize Semple’s refusal was unusual, instead he was placating her. “Look, we understand; tarmac’s international grounds, Federal jurisdiction. You need to hand him off on our turf; we get it.”

One of the other cops, a military looking man, spoke up, “Boss, why don’t we take him through Customs and then double back to a loading area and have a truck waiting there?”

Lane seemed to like the idea. “Our turf, take custody there, but we gotta keep that crowd preoccupied or they’ll follow the truck.”

Parker backed up the plan with, “I can give ‘em a little press conference, a little distraction while you guys are getting Elvis out of the building.”

Without a trace of alarm, Semple remarked, “So you want to take the prisoner along a non-vetted route, through an international area, where he’s back under my jurisdiction, lie to the press, and evade the public?”

Broder was incredulous as Lane and Parker traded looks, nodding agreement.

“Pretty much,” Parker admitted.

“Pretty much,” Lane agreed.

“Let’s make it work,” Semple decided, again to Broder’s shock. Wouldn’t the truck on the tarmac have been a much better option? Semple dialed rapidly on her phone, putting it up to her ear. “This is Agent Semple. Superintendant MacLean, please. Then get him out of the meeting, how about? Thank you.” In a brisk voice as she left, Semple continued, “Superintendant, slight change of plan. Absolutely necessary, I’m afraid.”

* * * * *

Greg looked up at the arrival board, beyond grateful that _he_ wasn’t the one flying. Flying on a gryphon hadn’t cured his fear of flying; if anything, he was _more_ afraid of flying now and he was hoping no one noticed he was getting a little gray just being this close to an airplane.

To his right, Agent Semple observed, “Not a bad vacation for the guys who get to fly over, at least.”

Greg couldn’t quite hide his shudder at the idea. “Well,” he replied, as nonchalant as he could manage, “If you like jumping over the ocean in a metal coffin, sure.”

Agent Semple turned, looking and sounding amused, while Greg flicked his gaze in Ed’s direction, noticing that his old friend was giving him a concerned look. “So there’s something that you guys are actually afraid of.”

Deciding to go with diversionary tactics, Greg told her, “Well, you know what? We all have our weak spots. Could be anything-- flying, cats.” As he said ‘cats,’ he cast a pointed look in Ed’s direction.

“It was one cat; it was mean,” Ed protested on cue.

Over his shoulder, Spike agreed solemnly, “I was there; it was mean.”

With a tiny laugh, Agent Semple remarked, “Well, I’m with you. Try flying into Khartoum International. Everything feels like a cakewalk after that.”

Greg hiked a brow in Agent Semple’s direction. “Khartoum, hmm. Youthful backpacking?”

This time, Agent Semple laughed openly. “It was a year ago.” As she spoke, her phone rang. While she reached for it, she continued, “Went through a rough time, needed to get away. Helped train local police there. It was a good experience.” With that she took the call with a brisk, “Semple.” After several seconds, she said, “Copy,” and closed the phone. “They’re coming off,” she reported.

Parker shifted, turning to his team and calling, “All right, subject’s approaching. Everybody up.” His team shifted into ready positions, picking up their shields and moving to face the disembarkment tunnel.

Agent Semple and her people moved to the front, Agent Semple getting her badge out once again. From the tunnel came a man in a gray outfit, top and bottom, wearing a tan jacket and in handcuffs. Much like his photograph, he was shaggy, his black hair and beard long, full, and unkempt. He was whistling to himself as he was pushed along, not looking up at anyone. Even as his keepers stopped him in front of Agent Semple, he continued to whistle and never looked up at her.

“Peter Wilkins?” Agent Semple asked. When the man did not respond, she merely continued. “Peter Wilkins, I hereby take custody of you and will transport you through Customs, after which time you will be placed in the custody of the Strategic Response Unit and transferred to Ossington Mental Hospital.”

The serial killer moved his head around, continuing to whistle to himself, offering no real response to the agent in front of him. With a barely hidden distaste, Agent Semple said, “Let’s get this over with.” Her staff took Wilkins from his airplane keepers and started down the airport corridor, with Team One in formation around and behind them.

* * * * *

Brian Wilkins frowned as a Muggleborn from another division poked her head into his office. “Yes?” he inquired. Sally was a perhaps not a friend, but she usually had very good information.

“You might want to get down to the airport, Wilkins,” she said, her voice worried.

“That’s Muggle territory,” Brian pointed out.

“Your Muggles are there,” Sally replied.

Brian sighed. “I’m aware; they do have jobs in the Muggle world, you know.”

“Someone tipped off the victims’ group – the ones killed by that Muggle Leslie Spit killer. They’re at the airport right now, mucking up your Muggles’ escort job.”

Brian’s eyes went wide with surprise and he rose, checking his wand and the phone Parker had given him only the day before. “They’re in trouble?” he asked.

“Not sure,” Sally admitted, “But they might be. My family’s outraged; they say that monster might get off since he’s crazy. Your Muggles will be right in the way if anyone tries to gut that…that _animal_.”

Brian nodded, already ushering her out and locking up his office. “Now, now, Sally,” he chided. “Don’t insult the animals, they didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

Sally giggled, getting out of Brian’s way. Brian hurried away, confused all over again. Why protect a monster?

* * * * *

Walter strode away from the co-worker he’d half choked, fury coursing within him. He wasn’t going to be stopped, not this close to his goal. If Danny had just done as he’d asked, the choking wouldn’t have been necessary. At least his glare had shut down Danny’s taunts as he left. He mentally checked his gun again. _This is for you, Julie…_


	5. Prisoner Escort

“All set, Sergeant,” Agent Semple reported, picking up the travel documents the man behind the Customs desk slid to her.

The Boss replied briskly, “All right, I’ll wait for your confirmation.”

As Wordy grabbed the prisoner, Ed raised his voice, “Lewis, accompany the Sarge.”

Boss crossed over, already trying to refuse. “Eddie, that’s not necessary. I’m just making a statement.”

Ed didn’t back down. “We know the new route. Those people out there don’t. And if one of them’s planning on taking a run at our guy, that puts you in their way.”

Greg didn’t argue, instead looking a little sheepish, “Look, hey…” With a fidget, he added, “Sorry about that cat thing.”

“We will talk about that later,” Ed retorted, hiding a tiny smirk. He ignored the Boss’s snicker behind him. After all, they _would_ be talking, though not about cats. Rather, about the Boss’s suddenly much worse fear of flying. “Diamond formation,” Ed barked, moving to his position in the half-circle around Wilkins. Behind him and around their captive were Spike, Wordy, Sam, and finally Jules. Spike and Jules carried the shields, ready to cut off any frontal assault. Wordy and Sam would handle the rear guard and Ed was free to move forward or back as needed. Agent Semple rounded off their group, leading the way through the international areas.

* * * * *

Moving on an intercept route, Walter pulled and checked his gun again, the weight of it in his hands a comfort. _Soon, Julie…_

* * * * *

Broder watched as that lousy Sergeant appeared to begin his own task of denying the public and the victims their right to see, mock, maybe even get at Wilkins. It disgusted him, making him even more irritated by the janitor yapping at him.

“I’m telling you,” Danny insisted, “Volcek is ten pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag, okay?” As an apparent demonstration, Danny grabbed his own throat. “He grabbed me. His eyes-- Broder, I’m telling you, I get chills thinking about those eyes, okay?”

“Danny are you high?” Broder demanded, “ ‘Cause I don’t have time.” He gestured at the crowd, the reporters, and most of all, that underhanded Sergeant. “You see the mess I’m dealing with right now? You think I have time for your mess?”

“There he is,” Danny declared, pointing at a man in the crowd.

Giving in, Broder said, “Okay, let’s find out.”

* * * * *

“Coming through last section-- all clear,” Ed reported, eyes and feet on the move.

“Copy that,” Boss acknowledged.

The group kept moving as quickly as they could. The sooner they could get this over, the happier all of them would be.

* * * * *

Broder ignored the curious Sergeant and his equally curious flunky as he reached the man…and realized it wasn’t Volcek. With an utterly disgusted tone he turned back to Danny and ordered, “Danny, get back to work.” Danny scampered away, his report dismissed and ignored.

* * * * *

As Team One moved through the last area, passing arrival and departure boards, everything was going as planned. Between one second and the next, it went to pieces as gunshots rang out. Semple gasped, diving for the floor.

“Get down! Get down! Get down!” Ed yelled; half his team made a collective dive for the scant cover of the ground, Sam dragging the prisoner down as well, while Spike and Jules whirled, keeping their shields up to block the attacker’s shots.

Wordy, who’d crumpled at the first gunshots, called, “I’m hit!”

There was no time to check, as Ed fired back from the cover of Jules’ shield. Over the radio, Greg demanded, “Team status. Status.”

The attacker bolted, racing for a nearby terminal. Ed’s bullets shattered plate glass windows and he raced after the shooter, firing after him and shattering two more plate glass windows while his target ducked around the corner and out of sight. “We just took fire,” he reported, already turning back to his team. “Who’s hit?” he demanded, also ordering, “Check the prisoner. Who’s hit?”

“Wordy, Wordy’s down,” Jules called from her position by the fallen man.

Fear leapt through the Team Leader as he almost slid to his best friend’s side. “I’m good. I’m good,” Wordy gasped out. “It’s in the vest.” He didn’t sound good and his face was clenched in pain.

Greg’s voice came through the comm, it sounded as if he and Lou were on the move, “Where’s the shooter?”

“No eyes. No eyes on the shooter,” Ed reported.

“Prisoner’s unharmed,” Spike called.

“The vest!” Wordy insisted as loudly as he could.

“Are you sure?” Jules asked.

“Yeah,” Wordy choked out.

Still anxious, Jules ordered, “Deep breath, Wordy.”

“Let’s go,” Ed ordered, though he turned toward his best friend. “Wordy, you okay?”

“Someone help me up,” Wordy rasped out, “Help me up.”

Without any warning, Semple raced after the shooter. “Agent Semple, stop!” Sam yelled, jogging after her a little. “Agent Semple is pursuing the shooter!”

“Sam and I gotta go,” Ed told the Boss; like Sam, he refused to leave Semple without backup.

“Negative!” Parker snapped. “You stay with the prisoner, Ed.”

“She’s got no backup!” Sam protested.

Ed made a snap decision, “Sam, go get her. Bring her back!”

Sam raced after Semple without a backward glance.

“We’re going to take the prisoner to Customs,” Ed informed Greg.

“Okay, let’s do that,” Greg agreed.

Jules and Spike hauled Wilkins up with a “One, Two, Three” from Spike.

“Let’s go, go, go,” Ed ordered, keeping the pace as swift as they could with an injured man.

* * * * *

Sam picked up his pace as much as he dared, trying to catch up to Semple. Rounding a corner, he spotted a door across from his position. “Approaching mechanical room, level 3,” he reported. He shoved through the door, hurrying down the steps. Inside the room, he heard voices coming from behind the near maze of equipment, vents, and a near forest of hot water boilers.

“Now. This stops now,” Semple said to someone out of Sam’s line of sight.

“That’s up to you,” a man replied, his voice steady.

Quiet, Sam reported, “Suspect is cornered. Need backup immediately.”

“It’s over,” Semple told the suspect. They were aiming their weapons at each other, standing mere inches apart.

Afterwards, Sam would kick himself for his stupidity, but he broke into the conversation, ordering, “Agent Semple, take cover behind me.” As he spoke, Semple turned and the suspect took full advantage. He bolted, tossing a grenade out as he ran. Sam didn’t hesitate; he shoved Semple away and leapt on the grenade, roaring, “Go, go, go!”

The grenade went off.

* * * * *

Greg was walking into the Customs office when it happened. A loud squeal over the radio nailed itself into his skull, making him stagger heavily; doubling over from the squeal and a sharp, mental pain, he almost fell. As he staggered, tingles of warning ran up his back. He panted, fear in his heart. “Sam!” He waited, heart in his throat. Nothing. “Eddie! Eddie, backup, now,” he ordered sharply.

“Copy that. We’re on our way,” Ed confirmed, somehow still steady.

The rasp over the radio was a relief even as it chilled. “Negative, negative,” Sam gasped out. “Stand down. Stand down.”

Greg swallowed hard as his surroundings seemed to fade into shadows and he ‘saw’ Sam on the ground with the shooter standing over him, gun aimed at the constable’s chest.


	6. Unleashed Potential

Walter dragged his bound captive to a corner and began to search the man, flinging the captive’s weapons away without a second look. In one pocket, he found a brand-new smartphone, still gleaming with its newness. “Hey, nice phone,” he told his captive, holding the phone up and waving it in the bound man’s face. “GPS?” He flung the phone down, his captive wincing as it impacted. As he continued to search his captive, he failed to notice two things. First, the phone on the ground began to glow, its parts and components sliding back together and the cracks on the screen knitting together before vanishing altogether. Second, the repaired phone quietly lifted itself off the floor and attached itself to his captive’s belt. The discrete notice-me-not charm it activated meant that Walter never realized his captive still had his phone.

* * * * *

Greg shook his head, dislodging the ‘vision’ he’d just seen. He strode to one of the computers in the Customs office, snapping an order to Lou to retrieve a laptop from the Command Truck. While he waited for Lou to come back, he paced, thinking. Where had _that_ come from? And why? It wasn’t like _he_ had magic, just…he sucked in a breath, eyes going wide…just the _potential_ for it. He pulled off his ball cap, running a hand over his head; was more of this going to happen? And what could he do about it?

As Lou raced back in with a laptop already open and set up, Greg snapped back to business. He signaled Lou to meet up with the team, Lou departed on the run again. “Shooter on the loose. Whole area is unsecure. We protect the prisoner here until we apprehend the shooter and get Sam back.” At Ed’s reply, he said, “Copy.” His phone rang and he answered at once, “Agent Semple, I’m gonna send my guys to the mechanical room as soon as we get the prisoner…”

Agent Semple cut him off, “No point. They’re gone. I am so sorry, Parker.”

With his negotiator mask firmly in place, Greg countered, “You need to get yourself checked out after that blast.”

In a crisp voice, Agent Semple replied, “I’m getting intel; I’ll be there in five.”

Both hung up, Greg doing his best to ignore the implications of his magic _potential_ suddenly awakening. Behind him, to his ill-disguised relief, his team arrived with the prisoner; clattering in, safe and relatively sound. Spike and Jules dragged the prisoner past, leaving Ed and Lou free to help Wordy over to the table right by Greg.

“Let’s get this vest off,” Ed said, his concern buried under his professionalism.

“Thanks,” Wordy got out, then his innate stubbornness took hold. “I-I’m fine. Just give me one sec, okay?” He stumbled back up and took himself out of the way, hissing in pain.

Greg let Wordy go, turning to the security guard who’d approached them. “Sir, we need a room with one entrance and no windows. You got something?”

“What about the holding areas for suspicious entrants?” Lou suggested.

Greg nodded agreement. To the guard he said, “Got that?”

“Yes, sir.” The guard hurried off.

Before anyone could say anything else, Greg felt another tingle up his back, a sound came through the radio. As if his hearing had just been boosted, he could hear Sam as clearly as if the man was standing right in front of him. “That’s our communication. We can all hear each other with that.”

Without missing a beat, Greg turned, lifting and closing his hand into a fist, then opening and moving in a ‘hush’ motion, ordering his team to silence. His team looked a touch confused, but obeyed. “This is Sergeant Gregory Parker with the Police Strategic Response Unit. Is there someone else on this line?” For several long moments there was nothing, then they all heard a heavy sigh on the comm. Greg’s hand flew into a chopping motion over his throat; his team immediately turned their radios off as their Sergeant’s face turned grim. “Can you tell me your name, sir?”

“No,” the subject refused flatly. “Listen very carefully. We are going to do a prisoner swap in twenty minutes. I’ll contact you with a location.”

Raising his voice, Greg asked, “Okay, can you tell me if my officer is all right?”

“He’s fine,” the subject replied. “For now.”

Once again, Greg’s vision was overlaid with the sight of a bound Sam looking up at the subject in some alarm. He held still, letting the image dissipate. “Eddie,” he ordered softly.

His team leader took his cue, “All right, no communication except by phone. Everybody got that?”

From behind the two leaders, Lou said, “Copy,” as Spike, Wordy, and Jules nodded. Wordy was still clutching his ribs, looking out of breath and in pain.

Eddie moved on, “We need a different location for holding, something secure. Wordy, you still need medical assistance.”

Wordy was already shaking his head, “I’m fine; we need to get Sam.”

“Let’s go,” Spike agreed.

Greg’s hearing was still heightened enough so that when Ed went over to Wordy, he heard every word. “I hear you, I hear you,” Ed reassured Wordy, “But with the rounds you took, you’re not running after anything.”

“I’m not sitting this one out,” Wordy gritted out.

“So I’m gonna put you on protection,” Ed decided. “We can’t move that prisoner until we’ve neutralized the shooter and secured the area. We need you, Wordy, we just need you where we can use you.”

Greg nodded approvingly as Wordy replied, “Whatever I have to do.”

“Partner with Wordy,” Jules volunteered at once.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed agreed, “Spike, Lewis, you’re with me. Room by room, if we have to.” Ed came back toward Lou and the table as Spike hurried over. “Let’s see some floor plans.”

Agent Semple entered as the three men pored over the blueprints. “Hey,” Greg greeted her. A sense of vague unease made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; he didn’t ignore the sense, but he _did_ put it aside to do his job.

“Hey,” Agent Semple replied as she offered him a page. “Walter Volcek-- joined custodial a month ago. Father of Julie Volcek, fourteenth victim of Peter Wilkins.” Greg looked away a moment, fury coursing through him. “My superiors have been informed. We’re checking every security camera, every…”

“Okay, thank you,” Greg interrupted her, moving past her back toward his computer. “We’ll take care of it from here.”

Agent Semple kept talking, “I put the word out to all our agents on-site. Our number-one priority is getting your man back.”

“Agent…” Parker protested, turning back to Agent Semple.

“Parker, he is where he is because of what I let happen,” Agent Semple said, something in her voice stirring that faint unease again.

Regardless, Parker contradicted her, “No. No, you didn’t let anything happen. This guy’s a pro. I’m gonna guess he’s military.”

With a tilt to her head, Agent Semple asked, “How’s that?”

“He’s a great shot and he grabbed one of my guys, and that’s a hard thing to do.” Frowning, Greg revealed his greater concern. “Now, what I’m worried about is his lack of care for getting caught or killed. That tells me he’s desperate, which means he’s dangerous.”

“Well,” Agent Semple remarked, her voice calm. “Don’t think you can afford to turn down any help, can you?”

Greg gave the stubborn woman a smile and turned to retrieve the ball cap he’d left on the desk. “Okay,” he gave in as he pulled his cap back on, “Well, we can, uh, use some help interviewing staff and protesters and the ever-so-vigilant Security Chief Broder.”

* * * * *

Wordy did his best to keep from staggering as he followed Jules and the prisoner into the makeshift holding cell. He stumbled over to a table in the room, dropping down with a muffled groan. Jules dragged the prisoner to the center of the room and shoved him down. “Stay there,” she ordered sharply. With Wilkins in sight and on the ground, she hurried back, calling, “You okay?” Wilkins started to whistle to himself again, prompting an angry, “Quiet, you!” With Wilkins silenced, she came back, questioning anxiously, “Is it bad?”

Wordy sucked in air, pushing down the pain as he tried to adjust his vest. “Uh…no.” He pushed at his vest as he tried to continue. “It, uh…” he gasped at another jab of pain, “…a rib or…maybe three.”

“Something’s wrong,” Jules hissed, trying to help him with the vest.

Something she did made it easier to breath. “W-what?” he managed.

“How’d Sarge hear that guy on the radio?”

Wordy lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “G-got one b-better. Why’d he prac…” Wordy groaned again, but soldiered on. “Practically go gr-gray once we were in the terminal?”

Jules shook her head; it was common knowledge that Sarge was afraid of flying and heights, but today he’d seemed much worse. “You figure that out, let me know,” she remarked. “Wonder if Sam was right about the phones,” she mused, almost to herself.

Wordy frowned at that. “Y-you mean about who he thinks paid for them?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s right,” Wordy said flatly. “S-saw Sarge’s face when he asked.”

Jules grimaced; they both knew their boss didn’t make enough money to buy equipment for the whole team. She looked back at the prisoner, suppressing a sigh and changing the subject. “Part of me wants to do something to him,” she admitted.

“Y-yeah, know what you mean,” Wordy agreed. “B-but when I go home tonight and I hold my baby girl, it’s gotta be with clean hands.”


	7. Fear, Loathing, and a Touch of Magic

Sam let his captor shove him forward in the dark maintenance area above the terminals. Unlike his captor, Sam had noticed when his new phone attached itself to his belt. Despite the notice-me-not charm, he knew it was there. Quality work like that wasn’t cheap, especially from the goblins, which just made the young Squib-born wonder even more how the Boss had paid for phones for the entire team. Also made him wonder what other surprises might be in store for them once the rest of the improved gear was delivered.

“Okay, sit, sit,” his captor ordered, shoving Sam to the fence that lined the walkway. “Right here-- sit down.” Sam, ever mindful of the gun aimed at him, sat awkwardly, doing his best to keep the other man from escalating. As Sam sat, his captor had moved across the hallway to a porthole sized grate, looking out at the empty terminal below. “Never seen it so empty before,” the man muttered to himself, turning and sitting back against the wall.

“That’s procedure,” Sam informed him, “We cleared the whole area for you.”

The man considered that for a moment, sucking in a breath. “How are the ribs?”

“My hearing’s a little shot,” Sam admitted.

“Was just a concussive grenade,” the other informed him, “With your, uh…your body armor, there shouldn’t be any real damage.”

“I appreciate the planning that must have gone into that,” Sam replied, trying to get a connection going. “You obviously don’t want to hurt anyone except…”

The other cut him off. “Well, the plan has changed. Can’t afford to be so considerate anymore.” Despite the harsh words, the other man didn’t appear to be ruthless, for he dropped his head into his hand with a heavy sigh.

Sam studied the other a moment, then, “Infantry?” When he received no response, he prodded, “Air Force?” With still no response, he offered a mostly sarcastic, “Come on, not Navy, please.”

That finally prompted a response. The man looked up with another sigh, resigned to replying. “You?”

“Special Forces,” Sam told him. _You have no idea how special._ He was proud of it now; proud to have been in his former unit, proud to be in his current unit. Amazing how two magical teenagers could change a person’s perspective.

“That figures,” the subject remarked, sarcasm reeking. “Jumps on a grenade. Tell all the ladies what a superhero you are?”

_Bingo._ “Yeah,” Sam concluded. “Infantry-- spend all your time whining about Special Forces.” The subject actually snorted, amused by Sam’s repartee.

* * * * *

“And no flags come up when his name matches one of Wilkins’ victims?” an angry Sergeant Parker demanded of Mr. Broder.

With not a shred of actual, honest concern, Mr. Broder asked, “How is that supposed to come up in a clearance check?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Parker said sarcastically, “It took Semple’s guys thirty seconds on Google.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Broder grated, “Yeah, so I’m the bad guy.” His voice turned indignant, it was as if he didn’t even realize the danger Sam was in, or maybe he didn’t care. “Meanwhile, these poor people…you won’t even let them get a look at the scumbag who’s off to get, what, ten years of Ping-Pong? They don’t deserve that justice, at least? Who’s the bad guy again? Huh?”

Parker’s eyes flicked to Agent Semple; grateful she had shown up before he could deliver a verbal smack down on the arrogant Security Chief. The man might deserve it, but Sam was the priority right now.   The two walked away from the Security Chief, Agent Semple reporting, “A member of the victim’s group said they got an anonymous call this morning. A male voice said, ‘If you want to see justice, come to the airport today.’ Figure Volcek made the call?”

Parker’s sense of unease flared up as she spoke. “Maybe…” he mused, “But then, how did he find out about the flight in the first place? How did he get his gun through employee security? And who knew about the alternate route? Us, you guys…and Mr. Security there,” he finished, tilting his chin up at Mr. Broder.

Agent Semple considered a moment. “Let me have a talk with our Mr. Broder.” Parker nodded and watched as she headed back toward Mr. Broder, his gut churning with that same sense of unease.

* * * * *

“So…” Sam began, feeling the other man out again, “Prisoner exchange…really?”

With a tiny snort, his captor replied, “Saw it work in the Sudan.”

“You in SAFARI?”

“Yeah, it was part of UNMIS. The Sudanese army, they had a…bunch of rebels. They turned them over to us. Rebels handed over some of their soldiers. It all seemed pretty straightforward.”

“This isn’t Africa,” Sam pointed out.

“You got that right,” the other spat, “If this was Africa, nobody’d have a problem with what I have to do.”

“You lose somebody you love, I’m not saying I don’t get you,” Sam tried.

“Get me? Buddy, don’t even try to pretend, all right?”

Sam switched tactics, “What I’m saying is, from an operational standpoint, I’m not seeing the desired outcome being very likely, knowing our rules of engagement.”

The other man was unconcerned. “Sudanese had rules, too. But when the wives and the children of your soldiers are crying at your door every night, the rules change. People can do things they…never would have expected.” With that, he shifted back to the grate, ignoring his captive.

* * * * *

Wendy could hardly believe what the officer was telling her. “I don’t understand how Walter could have done something like this,” she cried. “I tried to help him. We…we tried to go to groups together, and he…he just…he couldn’t do it. He just…he couldn’t get past it.”

The officer spoke with a surprisingly gentle tone, “There anything else you can tell me? Anything that might reach him?”

She didn’t know, but she could offer what she’d felt. “It’s just, you…you feel so alone. You feel like you’re the…you’re the only person that’s going through this, and if he knew…if he knew that he wasn’t alone…”

“Thank you, Wendy. We’ll let him know that,” the officer told her before hanging up.

On the other end of the line, Greg put the phone down and reached down to ‘accidentally’ key his radio. Behind him, Eddie picked up the cue and turned his own radio back on. “Ed, just spoke with Volcek’s wife. You copy?”

“Copy that, boss,” Ed ran with the ball, “What did she say?”

“He’s a good guy,” Greg declared, listening hard for Volcek…or Sam. “He’s a loyal soldier. They had one daughter-- Julie. She was fifteen when Wilkins killed her. There are some complicating factors, though. Volcek was on assignment when it happened. Julie was with her grandparents, his folks. They let her stay out past curfew. She never came home.” Internally, he shuddered, imagining Alanna in Julie’s place. “Walter hasn’t spoken to them since then. Marriage…well, you know…you know the stats on that one. Parents of a murder victim. I mean, it’s all pretty understandable, you know?”

Listening hard turned out to be a big mistake, because Volcek nearly blew Greg’s hearing out when he said flatly, “Textbook loser, eh?”

Greg couldn’t help his sharp flinch, a flinch Eddie didn’t miss, and struggled to ‘pull’ his hearing back. “I’m not saying that, Walter,” he replied, letting no hint of his own distress and problems come through.

“Why not? I’ve lived with it long enough,” Walter remarked bitterly. “Almost done, though. You know what I want. You give it to me…you can have me. Shoot me-- I don’t care anymore.”

“Yeah, but I care,” Parker countered, still struggling to ‘tone down’ his hearing; Volcek sounded like he was screaming to the Sergeant. “I care about my guy. And I do care about what you’re going through. But I especially care about ending this without any more pain. So, please, can you help me do that?”

“Sure,” Walter replied, too fast to be real agreement. “Just…come and meet me. Gate 525. I’ll have your guy; you have mine.” A shout, rather than a scream, but still much too loud to Greg.

“Okay. But that’s gonna take some time, Walter.”

“Five minutes,” Volcek declared, “Let’s get this over with.”

“Okay…” Greg switched his radio off, turning toward the already departing Ed. “Spike and Lewis?”

“Securing level 2,” Eddie called back. “I’m going to meet them at Gate 526.”

“Okay, you’re Sierra One,” Greg yelled.

“Copy that,” drifted back, audible mostly because Greg’s hearing was still too ‘high’. He grimaced to himself, straining harder to ‘pull’ it back to a normal level as Agent Semple moved closer.

“Broder gave himself up,” she reported. “Says he called in the tip to the group. Thinks he was being a righteous citizen. He swears up and down he had nothing to do with Walter. Just a bad coincidence.”

Greg’s unease surged up again, prompting his, “Yeah, uh-huh.” His hearing, now much closer to ‘normal’, seemed to have finally decided to cooperate, though he had a sneaking suspicion that was a temporary victory at best.

“We’re keeping on him,” Agent Semple promised. She looked at his radio. “Nice bit of talk there. Sounds like you had him in the end.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how much when we show up with no Wilkins,” Greg grumbled, his gut churning and starting to scream at him.

* * * * *

Brian surveyed the terminal, his eyes narrowing at the group of protesters and reporters present. Something was wrong, why were they still here? Surely the SRU was long gone with the serial killer. He couldn’t think the name; it was far too close to home. With a mental headshake, he studied the terminal again, examining every official looking person. Yes, he decided, something was _very_ wrong. Though he wasn’t sure what he could do to help, he decided to stay, just in case his Muggles needed him.

* * * * *

In the terminal area, Ed Lane was parked behind a flight display board, rifle braced on his arm and the small ‘shelf’ at chest height. From his position he watched as Spike and Lou entered, the latter with a shield in one hand and his sidearm in the other and the former with his submachine gun up and ready. “I got eyes on both of them,” Ed reported, “We’re sticking to hand signals for now.”

His Boss, who he was really starting to worry about now, replied, “Copy. If he shows up, I’ll be there in five. Until then, if he makes any kind of move on Sam…”

“Copy that, Boss.”

As Lou and Spike proceeded forward, their subject abruptly revealed himself from behind a pillar, Sam in one hand and the other down by his side. Sam was between the subject and his teammates, his expression frustrated and tense. “Okay,” the subject called. “Okay…okay.”

The two visible constables halted, their weapons coming up and focusing on the subject. “Boss, he’s here,” Ed hissed into his phone headset.

“Okay, I’m on my way,” Greg replied, the background sounds backing that up. “You’ve got Scorpio if you need it.”

Before Ed could acknowledge or plot anything else out, the subject called, “I’ll bring my hand up very slowly, ‘cause I’m sure you’ve got a sniper on me, and I want him…I want him to see this.” The man’s hand came up, a round object clenched tightly in his fist.

“What the heck is that?” Ed muttered involuntarily, then he stiffened. “Boss, we’ve got a big problem.”

“What, you can’t take the shot?”

Ed swallowed. “No, I can take the shot. But if I do, I kill Sam.”


	8. Semple Versus Wilkins

“He’s holding a frag grenade,” Ed reported, “The pin has been pulled. If I take him out, he’ll take out Sam and anybody within twenty feet.”

Further escalating things, Walter yelled, “If I don’t see Wilkins in five minutes, I let go. That’s it. Unless somebody’s got a better idea.”

The more sensitive hearing was proving to be both curse and blessing at the moment, Greg decided. “ ‘Unless somebody has a better idea.’ Is he talking to us?” He turned around, heading back to the computers and immediately rapped out new orders, “Ed, we need Spike to scan for any nearby radio receivers. I think Volcek might be trying to reach out to someone.”

Frustration rang in Eddie’s voice. “I can’t. Spike’s covering him and Sam. If Wordy and Jules can switch with Lewis and Spike…”

Equal frustration was in Greg’s own voice as he cut his team leader off, “No, they’ve got Wilkins. I’m going to call for a backup team.”

“To get here in five minutes?”

Greg slammed a fist down. “Ed…”

From behind him, Agent Semple spoke up, his gut pinging louder as she spoke, “Sergeant, let me help.”

“Delia…” Greg started to protest over his shoulder.

“Least I can do is help you do your job,” Agent Semple offered. “You get your officers off Wilkins, I’ll cover him.”

Something else nudged at Greg, the faintest idea. “No, no, he’s our responsibility, once you handed him off officially.”

“Look,” Agent Semple argued, “We both know who’s wearing this when it’s over, and I’m ready to face that, so let me cover for you. You go, I watch him-- off the books. Come back, it never happened. Let me do this for you. And me.”

He almost agreed, almost said yes, then something about the way she’d said Wilkins’ name finally clicked. “Ed, hold on a second; I’m conferencing this call.”

“Copy.”

He pulled the phone down, fingers flying as he called another phone. It rang once, then picked up, “Inspector Wilkins speaking.”

Parker grinned fiercely. “Inspector, are you near the airport?”

“Um, yeah, in the international terminal actually,” came the sheepish reply.

“Okay, I need you in the Customs office ASAP,” Greg ordered, “We need your help.”

“On my way,” Wilkins replied crisply before hanging up.

“Okay, Ed, I’ll have him send Wordy and Jules your way,” Greg informed his team leader.

Ed’s “Copy that,” was sharp, approving; much better to trust Wilkins than an unknown, even if she was friendly and helpful.

Wilkins arrived before an unhappy Agent Semple could ask what Parker was doing. “Inspector Wilkins, reporting for duty,” he announced smartly, even tossing Greg an actual salute.

If looks could kill, Wilkins would have been cooling on the ground mere moments later; Greg gave Agent Semple a minor frown at her behavior. “Okay, Inspector, we’ve got one member of the team in the hands of the subject and we need you to guard our prisoner so that Wordy and Jules can back me up during negotiations.”

Auror Wilkins didn’t ask questions; he just nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Greg gave Wilkins a quick rundown of how to get to the makeshift holding area and cut him loose with instructions to send Wordy and Jules to Gate 526.

Neither man saw the raw fury that ran across Agent Semple’s face as she watched Wilkins leave.

* * * * *

Parker arrived at the gate, his black leather binder in one hand and his other free to tap both of his officers on their shoulders. They quietly switched with Jules and Wordy; Ed sneaking away in the background as well. “Hi, Walter,” Greg called, “I’m Greg Parker.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Greg saw the trio of officers hurry off; he determinedly ‘forced’ his hearing to stay normal, rather than even trying to hear Ed’s plan. “Guess we gotta figure this one out, huh?”

In person, Walter sounded – and looked – even more like a desperate man trying to do this one last thing before giving up and dying. “I was under the impression all the figuring had been done, Greg,” he spat.

Internally, Parker sighed and prayed this wouldn’t kill Sam. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to be honest with you. I’m not going to be able to give you what you want.”

* * * * *

Ed joined his officers, his rifle already tucked back in its bag. “Spike, I need you to scan for any kind of frequency. Boss has got a hunch.” Even as he spoke, the group was moving toward the stairs and the trucks.

“What about Sam?” Lou demanded, “This guy’s escalating. Let me try for a hand-to-hand takedown.”

Ed shook his head at once. “It’s too risky. He drops it, I’ll lose you both. No way.”

Spike sounded discouraged. “No sniper, no distraction, no hand-to-hand. What do we have left?”

“I’ll get the slug,” Ed replied, heading down the stairs, “It’s a long shot, I know, but it’s all we’ve got.”

* * * * *

Auror Brian Wilkins surveyed the man in the middle of the room. He didn’t _look_ evil, just sitting there, whistling to himself. He huffed a sigh, still not completely sure why he was here, why he’d gone along with Sergeant Parker’s request that he help. But now that he _was_ here, he was going to do his job, no matter what.

Behind him, the door opened, the intruder moving as quietly as possible. A baton came down on Brian Wilkins’ skull, dropping him instantly.

* * * * *

“You want to tell me what this is all about, then?” Parker asked the cornered, desperate subject.

The subject kept hold of Sam, but his gaze was roving, never meeting Greg’s eyes. “I just, uh…to be honest Greg…I just need some time here.”

That didn’t just sound wrong, it _felt_ wrong; just like suddenly it felt like something had gone sideways when he hadn’t been looking. “Okay. You want time? You want to explain that to me?”

Walter looked at him again, finally meeting his eyes. “I can’t explain it to you, Greg, ‘cause you don’t know. Nobody knows. People who say they do know…they’re the worst. All these people, they say they want to help you, they just don’t leave you alone, you know? But you gotta be alone to understand why. Right?”

Greg studied the man, finally realizing that all he really could do right now…was stall long enough for Ed to get back and take down the grieving, desperate man in front of him.

* * * * *

Peter Wilkins was dragged out of the room, past the slumped man who’d taken over for those two cops. Peter shuddered; the man on the ground was still, just like those girls had been when he’d finished with them. But he couldn’t protest, couldn’t really form any words at all as he was hauled out and around the corner to a stairwell.

* * * * *

“I’ve got the slug,” Ed reported, “Spike, we’re on our way.”

“You gotta be really careful, okay? It’ll do the job: it’ll paralyze on contact, but Ed, the range is short, and that thing doesn’t shoot straight. You don’t hit him dead-on, it could be…it could be bad for Sam.” Spike’s worry rang in every word, but then, they were all afraid for Sam.

“Spike, we’ve got no choice,” Ed replied grimly.

As he raced up the stairs, he heard the trembling, grief-stricken voice of a father who’d lost his beloved daughter to a man that probably didn’t deserve to live, but it wasn’t the SRU’s job to judge. No more than it was this man’s job to judge. “Why should he live…when, every day, what he…what he did…kills all of us? It kills all of us, Greg, a little bit more and a little bit more and a little bit more until there’s nothing left.”

Calm, steady, as always, his Boss countered, “There is something left, Walter.”

“What?” the grieving man snarled, “What’s left, Greg?”

“What’s always been there,” the Boss told him, “Family. Your family…still needs you, no matter what.”

The subject looked down for a moment; even from his distant position, Ed could practically see the trembling. “Family.” Then the subject brought his hand up, the hand holding the grenade. Boss’s flinch didn’t need to be seen; Ed just hoped whatever had been bugging the man all day didn’t surge up now. “Let me tell you a little bit about my family, Greg.”

Ed hit the top of the stairs and darted right, hurrying behind the subject to the far windows, Lou on his heels. The slug was in his hands, but it needed to be a heck of a lot closer to hit its target. With a still shaking voice, the subject continued, “I have a…an ex-wife who drank herself into a coma every night for four years, and she pities me.” Ed kept moving, his instincts screaming that they were almost out of time. He couldn’t spare the time to look at anyone but his target, anything but the goal.

“I have a mother and a father that I can’t even look at without thinking about throwing up. And I have a CD where a daughter used to be. There’s no family left, Greg! See, that’s what you realize.” Almost, almost there. Ed cut across the rows of airport seats, determined, focused. “There’s no reason why. There’s just people in pain, spinning around a black hole, hoping that somebody, anybody…” Ed took a brief moment to check his aim, Sam looked ready to move. “…will just finish this!” The arm raised, the grenade about to be thrown down.

“Go now!” Sam roared.

Ed took two more steps and fired, his aim perfect; the slug struck the subject’s hand, encasing hand and grenade in a tan, paralyzing goop. The subject staggered, letting go of Sam.

“Go, go, go!” Greg yelled, signaling Wordy and Jules. They raced forward, almost pouncing on the man.

“Stay down! Stay down!” Wordy ordered as he closed in.

Overlaid and overlapping was Sam’s, “Don’t move! Don’t move!” as the former captive helped take down his captor.

“No!” Volcek wailed, his voice somehow rising above the team’s. He sounded utterly shattered; he struggled with a desperate, furious strength.

“Stay down on the ground,” Sam snapped.

“No! _No!_ No!” the now arrested man continued to cry, though he was now down and covered by virtually every member of Team One. Even Greg had his sidearm drawn and at the ready as he approached from the side, surveying the fallen man.

“Get him up,” Greg ordered curtly. The team pulled Volcek into a sitting position as Greg knelt down to talk with him. “We know who’s working with you, Walter.” Volcek stilled; Ed frowned when Volcek relaxed at Parker’s next words. “Come on. It was Broder, right?”

“Yeah,” Volek replied, looking down.

“He put the call into the, into the victims group for a distraction? The alternate route-- he tipped you off? What’s this better idea you’re talking about? What’s he supposed to do?”

Other than a sigh, Volcek said absolutely nothing. He looked determined, resolute.

“Come on, buddy,” the Boss cajoled. “He’s already in custody. Whatever it is, it’s not gonna happen. And the more cooperative you are, the better it’ll be for you.”

From behind Greg, Sam put his two cents in. “This isn’t the Sudan, Walter. We can’t change the rules. We got a job to do, no matter what.”

Greg’s head snapped up and around to Sam as he spoke, realization and horror racing across his face. He stood, demanding, “What about the Sudan?”

Confused, Sam explained, “He was stationed there last year. Why?”

Parker snatched his phone, already dialing. “Wordy, Jules, get back to the prisoner,” he ordered crisply.

Unnerved, Ed asked, “What’s up, Boss?”

Greg muttered, “Stupid,” as he put the phone up to his ear; he sounded as if he was cursing himself. “Superintendent MacLean’s office? Yeah. Did Agent Semple call today about a change in the escort route for, uh, Peter Wilkins?”

Behind them, the subject let out a defeated sigh and hung his head.

Greg’s face contorted; he looked as if he was calling himself every name in the book right then, but he managed a terse, “Thank you,” as he clicked the phone off.

“Okay, Ed,” he gritted out, still sounding incredibly frustrated with himself, “They didn’t get a call. They didn’t get a call. She wasn’t talking to them.”

Still two steps behind, Ed demanded, “So, what’s that got to do with Broder?”

The other shoe dropped as Sarge retorted, “Yeah, I think Broder was telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with this. It was Walter and Delia.”


	9. Don't Get to Feel Right

Agent Delia Semple forced her captive through the door to one of the parking garages. She pushed him along, getting far enough into the structure to get decent range and a good shot. Once she had the range, she shoved him away, saying, with eerie calm, “Run.” He looked back at her, confused, and she said flatly, “I need to make it look like you tried to escape.” Her weapon was already drawn and in her hand, aimed at him. “I said run, you monster,” she snapped, the calm already evaporating.

Mute, he shook his head. To run was to die.

“Run!” she screamed in his face. He turned and ran.

* * * * *

Wordy was still in pain and gasping as he and Jules reached the storage room they’d commandeered as a holding cell. Jules swung the door open, entering first, Wordy on her heels. Inside, they found Auror Wilkins on the ground, just coming around as he clutched his head and groaned.

“Brian!” Jules cried, flying to the fallen man’s side.

Wilkins groaned again, “Not…so loud…” he gasped; Wordy could sympathize. “What…hit me? An Abraxan?”

Wordy ignored that to report in, “Inspector Wilkins is down; prisoner’s gone.”

But Wilkins was already crawling to his feet, ignoring Jules’ helping hand. “I-I’m coming,” he hissed. “If that double-crossing…” His face twisted as he tried to think of an appropriate insult.

“Okay, let’s go,” Wordy said, overriding whatever Jules might have said. The trio raced out.

* * * * *

Greg whirled back toward Walter, the unease he’d been feeling in Agent Semple’s presence finally making sense, all too late. Determined, he leaned down and said grimly, “Listen to me, Walter. I know you think you’re protecting her, but you’re not. If Agent Semple hurts that man, she’s done, she’s destroyed.”

“Have you not been listening, Greg?” Volcek demanded, “She’s already done.”

* * * * *

Peter Wilkins ran, hoping he could duck behind the concrete pillar before the madwoman behind him opened fire.

“Run!” she screamed.

* * * * *

“Wilkins got her sister the same time he got my Julie. She could have lost it, like most of us, but she was…she was strong. She didn’t even tell her superiors. Her sister had a married name, so she just kept it to herself.”

He needed to know, needed to understand, needed to fix what he’d accidentally screwed up. “She tell you this in Khartoum, the Sudan?”

“Yeah,” Walter replied. “It was like it happened for a reason. I mean, what are the chances? Both of us being there, both of us trying to get away from the same thing, but you c…” He stopped, fumbling for words. “You can’t get away. You can’t get away. And it’s like you can…” He paused again. “It’s like you can smell it on each other. You know? Stinks like, uh…like gasoline. That kind of pain.”

“What’s she going to do, Walter?” Greg asked, pushing down all of the other problems of the day. _This_ , this was his chance to keep everyone alive.

The bound man looked up, smirking. “All I had to do was shoot him. Now that’s all she has to do.”

* * * * *

“Merlin’s beard, I’m doing this wrong,” Wilkins hissed, drawing his wand to the surprise of his two techie colleagues. “ _Point Me, Peter Wilkins_ ,” he almost snarled at the wand; it immediately spun and pointed downwards. “Follow me,” the Auror ordered, racing toward a nearby stairwell.

“Sarge, we got them,” Wordy reported, following as swiftly as he could. “Wilkins has got a handle on ‘em.”

From ahead, Wilkins had apparently managed to narrow down the location for he shouted, “Three floors down, looks like a basement.”

Jules repeated that over the radio for the rest of the team.

“I’m on my way,” Sarge replied. “Get down there as fast as possible.”

“Copy,” Wordy acknowledged.

* * * * *

Brian Wilkins raced ahead of his techie counterparts, furious that a _Muggle_ had gotten the drop on him and made him look bad. His wand aimed at the door ahead of him as he ran. “ _Alohomora_ ,” he snarled; the door almost flew open from the force of his temper.

A gunshot rang out from the room; Wilkins slowed enough for his techies to catch up. A woman’s voice rang out, lethally cold, “Close your eyes and this will be over.”

“Please.” It was a pitiful moan, weak and pleading.

“Close your eyes!” the woman screamed.

“Please,” the man on the ground panted.

“Agent Semple?” Wordy called, the trio making their way across the pavement. Wordy and Jules had their weapons raised; Wilkins angled his wand at her with no regard whatsoever for the Statute of Secrecy.

“I just want him to close his eyes,” Semple told them, still aiming her fireleg…no it was a firearm, Brian corrected himself.

“You need to put the gun down,” Wordy ordered, somehow calm, steady, and in control despite the injuries Brian had noted.

“I just need him to close his eyes,” Semple repeated. To her target, she screamed, “I said close your eyes!”

“Oh, please,” Peter Wilkins begged, no longer mute, no longer even whistling to himself.

Wordy, to Brian’s surprise, lowered his weapon and stepped behind Jules. “Jules, on target,” he murmured. “If you don’t put the gun down, we’ll be forced to shoot you. Do you understand?”

“No,” Brian hissed, too low for the woman to hear, “She’s mine, Auror Wordsworth.” In demonstration, he aimed his wand, sighting down it as if it were Jules’ submachingun.

From behind the trio, two more arrived. “Delia?!” Sergeant Parker called, his voice lifting enough to be heard by all present. “Delia, what are you doing? This isn’t right. This isn’t justice. This is vengeance. You know that.”

“You don’t know what I know,” Semple almost wailed.

“Okay,” Parker backed down a little. “But can I tell you what I do know? You’ve had Wilkins all alone for nearly twenty minutes.” Brian growled at how quickly he himself had been taken out by the small woman. “You could have killed him by now, but you didn’t. Because you’re a cop. You’re not a killer.”

Semple looked up at them, her eyes so hollow, so desperate. Brian’s stomach twisted. Then she looked back down at her target. “I was a good cop. I was a good sister.” Brian swallowed hard, was it worth it to stop her?

“And you still can be.” The hope in Parker’s voice was almost painful.

“No.” Brian hefted his wand higher, right on target. “He took that away. Now I’m just _this_.”

“Delia, no!” Parker yelled, his own desperation coming through.

“ _Stupefy_ **(1)** _!_ ” Brian roared, the red jet of light erupting with the speed of a bullet from his wand.

The shouts echoed in the structure as Wordy, Lane, and Jules raced forward, their own yells colliding and echoing. “Get him down! Get him down! Get him down!” Wordy and Jules hauled Peter Wilkins up and away from where he’d almost died, leaving Lane to cuff and haul Delia Semple away. Brian stood stock still, staring at the spot where Semple had been, his wand still extended, smoke coming from the tip. He hardly noticed when Parker’s hand gripped his shoulder and the other hand gently pushed his wand arm down.

* * * * *

“After which point, Mr. Wilkins was returned to our custody. And Agent Delia Semple was remanded to the custody of the Federal Customs Department.” Parker stopped, looking around at his team. His gaze fell on an unusually silent Auror Wilkins. Brian Wilkins had saved Delia’s life, no question about it. Yet he was behaving as if he’d gone lethal. “Brian, you have anything to add?” Greg asked gently.

Auror Wilkins shrugged and Parker was about to move on when a soft, “Why?” came from the man. Greg cocked his head at Auror Wilkins in silent return query, inviting elaboration. “I understand going after Auror Braddock,” Wilkins remarked. “But why protect that…” He stopped, thought a moment. “Why was it right to protect _him_ at the potential cost of your lives?”

The question was honest, plaintive, with none of Walter’s grieving scorn, Mr. Broder’s indignant self-righteousness, or even Agent Semple’s broken loss. Greg sighed in quiet acknowledgement of Auror Wilkins’ point. “There are times that the job doesn’t make sense, Brian. Days when we wonder if we’re making a difference. Today, I admit, it was screwy; we don’t usually protect the bad guys.” Murmurs of agreement came from around the table. “But, and this is a big ‘but’, everyone is entitled to justice, to their day in court.”

“Not vengeance,” Brian put in, finally beginning to understand.

Greg pointed to Brian with a small tilt of his head, right on target. “You did what you had to do, Brian; what was _right_. And we have a saying here. Just ‘cause you did right, doesn’t mean you get to feel right.”

Brian considered that for a minute. “Days like this,” he finally muttered.

“I hear you,” Eddie remarked, rather rueful.

“Thank you,” Jules spoke up. “For saving her life, I mean.” And sparing Jules the burden of going lethal.

Brian cast her a small smile, then pushed himself up. “I need to report in,” he explained awkwardly.

“Okay,” Parker acknowledged. “I’ll make sure nothing ‘classified’ is in the report for today’s events.” Auror Wilkins gave Greg a salute of appreciation, then departed. The rest of the team dispersed to the locker rooms, leaving their Sergeant alone in the briefing room.

* * * * *

Greg closed the door to his apartment, grateful to be really, truly _alone_. Oh, the kids were in the apartment, but they were asleep; he’d called earlier and told them he’d be late. The SRU Sergeant leaned his head back against the door, soaking in the quiet, letting it sooth his badly strained composure.

He’d begun the day with merely the _potential_ for magic and ended it with, well, he didn’t think it was full-blown magic, but it was certainly something. It had taken half the evening for his hearing to go back to what Greg considered normal; even now, he had a feeling that it would surge back up at the least provocation. As for the tingles up his back and the, in the end, surprisingly accurate gut instinct, that had _not_ gone away. If pressed to explain, he could have told whoever asked that he knew, roughly, where each member of his team was and if they were in trouble. Unnerving, to say the least. Also not something he planned on telling his team anytime soon.

Deciding to worry about whatever was going on tomorrow, the exhausted Sergeant headed for bed.

* * * * *

“Muggles shouldn’t even _be_ in our world,” one man hissed to his compatriots. “Much less working as Aurors.”

His four fellow wizards nodded agreement, downing their Firewhiskey. “What should we do?” one of them asked, his voice tinged with malicious delight.

“What we do to all the uppity mudbloods,” another opined, sneering.

The five clinked their glasses in approval and planned long into the night. In the shadows, a figure crept away, well pleased with itself. Cold swirled around the black figure; a horrid, acrid stench drifted in its wake. The vulture head atop its shoulders gleamed with suppressed malevolence, the eyes a harsh red hue. The creature had four arms; one of them snatched up a rat from a nearby barrel. The rat squeaked in alarm, but was swiftly silenced. Soon, the creature decided, soon the last of Narnia would be vulnerable, open to his servants. And when the last of Narnia was gone, he would finally have his revenge on the great cat.

 

_~ Fin_

 

[1] ‘to put into a stupor’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for this story. I welcome any/all comments and I hope ya'll enjoyed. Stay tuned as we begin "Wait on the Sun" this Friday, June 16th, 2017.


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